


Too Rash, Too Sudden

by Carmarthen



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Cousins, F/M, Family, Forebodings of Doom, Foreshadowing, Gen, Misogyny, Relationship Advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris asks his cousin Mercutio (God knows why) for romantic advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Rash, Too Sudden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kira_K](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kira_K/gifts).



> I hope you like it, although I used your suggestion as more of a starting point. I couldn't figure out how to work in Mercutio's thing for Romeo without doubling the wordcount since it's not something I see him voluntarily sharing with Paris, but it's there, he's just in deep denial about it. 
> 
> I had Szabi's naive if slightly vain Paris in mind.
> 
> Thanks to drcalvin for the beta.

"Mercutio? Are you in here?"

The speaker was familiar, and Mercutio slitted one eye open and considered hiding behind a bookcase until he left. Unfortunately, Cousin Paris was persistent, and the library small and rarely used—books were expensive, and their uncle's priorities lay elsewhere—which made it a good place to sleep off the previous night's wine but a poor place to hide from irritating younger cousins.

"No," he said, "go away."

Paris laughed like he'd told a joke and bounded into Mercutio's line of sight, wearing a purple satin doublet so richly encrusted with pearls and gold thread that it probably violated half a dozen sumptuary laws. Of course, he had the money to pay the fines without a blink, because he was an only son, already come into his title and inheritance, without a stingy older brother and disapproving uncle holding the purse strings.

If Mercutio had ever harbored hopes that university would take some of the cocky shine off Paris, poke a few holes in his over-inflated vanity, he had been disappointed. Paris might or might not have learned any law—when you had that much money, it didn't much matter—but he had returned from Wittenberg with ego intact. He drank moderately, wenched discreetly, performed the duties their lord uncle required without complaint, and all in all had become even more of an insufferable prig.

"What do you want?"

"Only your advice, coz." Paris seated himself at the other end of Mercutio's bench with the same oblivious self-assurance that took Romeo careening through life, but without his redeeming qualities, as far as Mercutio was concerned.

Oh, that was too much. "If it's about trade," said Mercutio, considering what he might say to make Paris sorry he'd asked, "you know I'm useless. Valentine tells me so often enough. But perhaps you're in need of a new dive—the Dolphin's not bad, but I wouldn't go there dressed like that unless you want to wake up in the gutter. And some of the women have lice. Or is it about women? I thought you had that well enough in _hand_ already—" Paris flushed, boyish cheeks pinking. By god, how could he still seem so young? "Or perhaps it’s _boys_ you’re after—"

"No!" He was blushing in full measure now, crimson above the lace of his collar. "I mean—yes, about women— _a_ woman—but not that kind. A lady."

"Oh," said Mercutio carelessly, "there's less difference than you'd think. Although you have to be careful with husbands. Who's she married to?"

"Me, I hope," Paris said, tilting his chin up and firming his jaw, as if that would magically transform him into a man. "That is, I intend to ask her father—"

"I see." Mercutio did not see. Paris was young, he was rich, he had approached his expensive mistresses with polite enthusiasm and shown none of the familiar signs of lovesickness that long acquaintance with Romeo had made him all too familiar with. There was no reason in the world that he should be seeking a wife already, and every reason not to. He shuddered a little, inwardly. The thought of being bound to a woman like that, unto the grave and beyond, filled him with a horror he shied away from examining too closely. With Valentine and his wife dutifully producing a brat on schedule every year or so, he hoped he would not have to for a long time yet. "Well, godspeed to you; is that all?"

"It's not her parents." Paris leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. Mercutio had seen how much wine he'd had at the banquet last night; he had no right to look as if he'd got up at dawn and run a brisk, refreshing lap around the city. "I'm young, I'm wealthy. I have everything to provide for a bride. And the castle on Lake Garda, of course."

The castle was a rotting old pile from Paris' maternal grandfather, and Mercutio would be surprised if anyone had set foot in it since the old boy was young, other than village children playing brave explorers. But he let that pass; if Paris wanted to fling his gold down that well, that was his folly. "You're worried about the girl," he said at last, since Paris seemed far from reaching the point and further from leaving Mercutio to his hungover nap. "Who is she, then?" 

"Julia," Paris breathed, so dreamy-eyed that Mercutio felt a bit ill. There but for the grace of God. "Julia Capulet."

Mercutio actually managed to roll off the bench laughing, and kept laughing from the floor while Paris frowned down at him, simultaneously disapproving and hurt. Oh, they'd eat him alive, the Capulets, and there wouldn't even be any bones left to spit out.

He scarcely remembered the girl - a bug-eyed little thing who'd followed him and Tybalt around, back when they'd been young enough to have something to say to each other that didn't end in drawn steel. Tybalt had never let him chase her away. She must be—fourteen now? Fifteen? The Capulets kept her cloistered away almost as secret as a nun. Maybe she'd grown into her eyes. All the same, she could be as beautiful as as Helen of Troy and sweet as honey and she'd still be a Capulet. Better to marry into a nest of vipers where the sting was out in the open.

"I'm in love," said Paris with painful earnestness. "I don't think it's funny."

"You're right, sweet coz," Mercutio managed at last, righting himself and wiping away a stray tear. "It's hilarious. Tell me, have you met that sour streak of bad attitude she calls a cousin?"

Paris frowned more deeply. "Tybalt? He's not bad."

 _Then he hasn't figured out yet what you're after,_ Mercutio thought. Oh, there'd be fireworks when that happened, and he only hoped to be there to see them. Although—he didn't really want anything _permanently_ bad to happen to Paris. A little set-down to his pride, that was all. There were plenty of fish in the sea, and one was as good as another.

"Well, as far as the girl is concerned—" He thought for a moment; what one said to a marriageable maiden was a foreign tongue, as incomprehensible to him as Chinese. What would Romeo do? "Capulet's rich; she won't be impressed by jewels and gowns. Write her a poem. It doesn't matter if it's any good. That's not the point. And I suppose women always like flowers, don't they?"

"Poetry and flowers." Paris seemed to be making diligent note in that ledger he called a mind, probably scheduling in a quarter of an hour after supper to find rhymes for _hair._ "Thank you for the advice."

"You are always most welcome to any wisdom I possess, dear coz." Sarcasm simply rolled off Paris, but it was a habit. Mercutio flung his arm over his eyes to block out the light as he laid himself down again and listened to Paris' mercifully retreating footsteps.

His earlier lethargy had yet to reclaim him. As humorous as the whole affair was, it still held the seeds of something that gave Mercutio a feeling of unsettlement. He knew too well already what Paris seemed to have forgotten in Wittenberg, where the greatest danger was oversleeping and missing a lecture. Verona was tinder, and even a dim little candle like Paris could catch it to light. It was not safe to love Julia Capulet.

" _Do_ try to stay on Tybalt's good side," he called out. "I'm short on spare cousins."

But there was no reply.

**Author's Note:**

> To be fair, Mercutio's right to be unsettled about what's coming, just not about the details....


End file.
